Toss That Beat

So 32 people have gotten sick from a product and the government unilaterally says, just before the national eating holiday, DON’T USE THE PRODUCT and everyone’s freaking out….


OK, SO about the 58 deaths in Las Vegas a year ago….or the 50 people who died in Orlando….or the 20 toddlers who perished in Sandy Hook from another deadly product which is….(wait for it)….STILL ON THE SHELVES.
A product which huge lobbying groups rally to keep available, which armed militias act in paranoid defense of, which slightly less than half the country votes for its most swindling, lying, scamming, stealing, pussy-groping opportunistic advocate and which the government literally bans research into the harm it causes???????
“I dunno, I’m more scared of lettuce. Why isn’t the government PROTECTING. ME. FROM. LETTUCE!!!!!”
Maybe we need to give people other forms of lettuce so they can save each other, you know…
We are so totally screwed as a society.


Nothing Compares 2 U

Sometimes, in your deepest rage, you imagine terrible things, the awful things you’d say at that darkest of moments.   You rehearse and refine them while you’re raking the leaves or cleaning the commode.   Steeling yourself, you forge forward, sharpen your blades, prepare to pounce on the unsuspecting prey.

And the next day, nothing broached or uttered or subject skirted, you spend the day creating, laboring, testing, trying.   The moment comes and goes.   The anger passes by like a whisper, in the dark, miles away.

And cleaning the dishes, somehow it bubbles to the surface.  It breaks from the crust, clean and delicate and wonderful.   Much like the meal.   It comes out of you in a hug, a moment of honesty and tenderness, acquiescence and oneness.

And it works.  That airy souflée of truth.   At its apex.   Luscious and wonderful, light and not yet deflated.

Received and responded to with equal honesty, realization, guilty regret and promise.

Trust.  Truth.

And it works.  Far better than you planned or plotted in your sabotage.  The combination better than the single ingredient.

When does one learn?  When does one listen?  Where is patience?  Where is understanding?

Quit imagining more.

We ask ourselves.



Come Into My Room


I learned something this week, in Provincetown.   Not that that’s unusual.   Quite the opposite, actually.

I learned more about the definition of Hospitality.   That definition that I’ve been chasing for quite some time.    What I discovered was that it does not have to include a huge or elaborate or fancy or, even, correct meal.  It only has to include the idea that welcoming friends and strangers into one’s home is the most basic of human gestures.

In fact, it recognizes quite a few universal needs….nourishment, contact, interaction, relaxation, safety….love.

So thank you for the ill-received fried shrimp, shell-on.  Thank you for the the grunts and groans and non-communication as you sat at your computer making lists each morning.   Thank you for the reluctantly-accepted, spur-of-the-moment invitation that turned out to be a delightful evening and the impetus for new, lasting friendships.   And thank you, for the hug, the recognition, the “hey John Brown!” and the embrace of the newest addition to my life.


This is the Day

I’ve said before that a restaurant can change one’s life.


I may might not have specified which restaurant, and I think perhaps I was thinking collectively:  Prune, TopFlr, La Tavola, Osteria al Doge, Devon’s.

Tonight, my thinking was reaffirmed.   I ate with Kris at the bar at LaTavola.  I dined solo.  Kris, my friend and former co-worker, poured my drinks.  She was happy, in a good space despite recent loss.  We talked about life and important things and reconnected and realized our love for each other and our friends.  And this place.   This service.  This process.  This family.

And I dined in what I consider a holy temple.

A temple of friendship, hospitality, encouragement, forgiveness, creativity, refuge and respite.

And a place that continues to inform my life.

And The Walls Came Down


It’s odd that two buildings cast such permanent shadows.   Somewhere there’s a picture of me on the roof of one of them, looking at a tight-rope artist’s signature on the window washing rail.   In this one, taken 8 or 9 years later, I’m standing a bridge watch onboard the USS MacDonough, sailing into New York Harbor for Fleet Week 1989.  And today, those shadows still linger, having changed our entire way of life, from politics to art to our ability to travel unencumbered through our days.

Every Picture Tells A Story


Helen Frankenthaler, The Bay, 1963, acrylic on canvas

When I read that the Provincetown Art Association and Museum was mounting an exhibition of Helen Frankenthaler’s work, my heart leapt.  When I read further, and learned the show was to be comprised of works she created in P-Town, I got chills.

You see, Frankenthaler is the first artist whose work moved me to tears.  It was her retrospective at the National Gallery in 1993, particularly the show’s “finale’, the oversized bronzed screens in that last hall that gave me pause and moved me emotionally.   Since then, I’ve been pleasantly surprised to find her work here and there, in Birmingham, for instance.  And even here in Atlanta at the High Museum of Art.  For 25-years, I’ve enjoyed this casual relationship with her lovely, oversized, vibrant canvasses.

I never knew she painted in Provincetown.  I never knew she counted Mattisse as one of her primary influences.  I never knew she swam daily.  I never knew she kept notebooks detailing dinner party menus and guests.  And I never knew that the odd 3-story structure across the street from my Ptown flat was the studio she shared with her husband, Robert Motherwell.  I never knew.

But I knew that I had to get up to the Cape to see this show.   And so I did.

And once again, I was moved to tears.   Not so much by the scale of the work or the enormity of the exhibition or the other, non-related emotions coursing through my brain.   No, this time because of the connections this stranger, this disciplined, beautiful, creative soul has had to what’s been important and significant in my life.   I’m baffled by the similar affect aesthetics have on individuals separated by life, location and generation.

And amazed and appreciative for her work, once again.


Cry Freedom

rudyConsider Rudy Giuliani…the once brilliant US Attorney for New York, buster of mobsters and crooked financiers….who was elected mayor, “cleaned up” Manhattan, then seized an opportunity to become America’s Mayor in the toxic, swirling, living dust of 9-11…now reduced to defending the orange-haired buttboy of Putin, Russian Mafioso Scum and sycophantic YesMen…so far in over his head as to be saying such shit as “truth is not truth.”

What the Fuck Rudy?

What are you thinking?


How much are you making??

We’re not idiots….and Hell burns hotter each day.

Rudolph, as we say Down South….bless your goddam motherfucking son-of-a-Yankee-bitch heart.

Run Run Runnin’ Around

Last I wrote, I was saying goodbye to the automobile I had owned for almost 18 years.  A trusty steed, that one.  My plan was to wait until the first of this year, then buy a “beater” car, one for under 10 Grand or so, that I could pay cash for and just run into the ground.  I was talked out of it by Mr. Man.  His rationale was “just wait, see if you can go without one.  You can use my car whenever you need one.”

And so I’ve waited.   And to be honest, it’s been a fantastic decision.

In many ways, my particular living and working circumstances align perfectly to make being carless in Atlanta so headache free.  I work from home.  My main client is a half-mile away.  My house is literally in Atlanta’s most walkable neighborhood.   I’m a 12-minute walk from one transit station, 15 from another.  I can ride my bike to the grocery via off street trails and paths.   The dry cleaners is walkable.  Haircut off the bike trail.  Liquor store, too.  When I do need 4 wheels, Mr. Man’s offer still stands and he gladly offers up his car.

In short, it’s been really, really nice not having to worry about traffic or pay full insurance or burn gas or suffer from road rage.  Sure, I have to plan my errands a little farther in advance, but I love to plan so no big whup.   And, I’ve lost 15lbs since the beginning of the year.  My world is a better place.

What Are Words For?

Well, to think that I might actually get paid for, and be valued for, the words that I write and the letters that I string together is, well, something so completely unexpected that I’m not sure how to react.   It’s nothing that I planned.  It’s nothing that I set out purposefully to do.  It’s just always been there.  From those first thank you notes and letters to my grandparents to the deepest, most twisted, obtuse, bad poetry that I ever waxed and waned to.   It just is.

I’m so grateful and it motivates me.  Thank you innerwebs…thanks AKAFRANKGREEN.COM…thank you fingertips and that typing teacher in high school.

Thanks Mom and Dad for teaching me that words do indeed matter.

We’re Gonna Have A Good Time With This, Dear!

Lots has certainly happened since we last spoke…

I’m “in a relationship” with a pretty amazing man.   My branding/copywriting business is going really well.   The house is almost paid off.  I broke my collarbone and have sufficiently recovered…    I guess that’s about it.


C’mon, you know what I’m talking about.  The 260lb moron in the room.  Yeah, him.

Oh, I have the same recurring concentration camp dreams that you do.   I can actually visualize the polar ice caps melting and Richmond, Raleigh and Augusta becoming prime beachfront real estate.   I know how I’m gonna feel when they take away our meds and ban free speech.   I’ve been practicing my “Praise Jesus” yell and the missionary position.  Gurl, I got all that down.

What the Asshole in Chief doesn’t realize, and what I’m just beginning to see, is that the people, you know, you and me, are not having this shit.   I saw y’all marching in DC.  And Chicago.  And LA.  And New York.  And Anniston.  And Shithole, Nova Scotia.  And that was only Day One!

He can nominate as many idiots to systematically destroy our government from the inside out, and he can rattle his sabre till the cows (and the terrorists) come home.  But you know what?  We got this.  We will prevail.

The first stop/step will be in November of 2018.  Almost a year and a half away.  This will not end will for Mr. Turtle (you know, Mitch McConnell) and the guy I’d like to fuck, hard, no lube (yep, you guessed it, Paul Ryan).  Take loads much, motherfucker?

Can you tell I’m pissed?  Damn right I am.

This is my country as much as anyone else’s.  I’ll gladly share.  Just don’t take it away from the rest of us.  This won’t end well.

You’ve been warned.